


The Curse

by Mice



Series: (Un)binding [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mystrade is Magic, magical au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23964598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice
Summary: Greg has the worst luck in love of anyone he knows. Finally, at the end of his rope, he seeks out a magician to help him solve the problem and change his luck. Things are never quite as simple as they seem.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: (Un)binding [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749085
Comments: 70
Kudos: 227
Collections: Mystrade Is Magic





	The Curse

Greg had never really thought himself a particularly unlucky man. He was a cop, and he'd managed to survive years of being on the streets, dealing with murderers and the like. Were he genuinely unlucky, he'd have got himself killed long ago. That might have been better, really, he sometimes thought. Faster than this slow misery, at least.

No, he was just unlucky in love. Got married, but the wife cheated on him, then dumped him. He could pull at the pub from time to time, but nobody ever seemed happy with him, and gods forbid anyone should agree to a second date. Nobody he knew could understand it. He was clean, he had good teeth, he dressed well enough, he wasn't stupid, and nobody had ever actually complained that he was _bad_ in bed, but nobody ever stayed. Obviously he wasn't good enough, for some reason. Utterly depressing.

"You really need to find out what's going on," Donovan told him one afternoon. "I swear, nobody has bad luck like you do. Maybe you got cursed."

"There's too many charlatans out there," Greg grumbled. "Take your money, say they'll unhex you, and it's worth nothing. Your situation doesn't change. Maybe you weren't even ever cursed at all, you're just out a few hundred bob and contemplating going to the fraud unit." Greg didn't think he'd been cursed. Most curses were obvious as neon lights and disco balls. Greg just had terrible luck with relationships. Probably wasn't worthy of having one anyway, at this point.

Anderson looked up from where he was collecting hair samples. "You know legitimate mages exist, Greg. It's not just sketchy hedge witches and cunning men. Not a bunch of fake ceremonial types more concerned with sigils than results, either."

"What, do you know somebody?" Greg crossed his arms and frowned at his forensics tech. 

"Not offhand, but I can find one, if you don't want to look."

Greg shook his head. "Yeah, no thanks. I'd feel better doing my own research. I'll give it some thought."

"You really ought to," Donovan said. "You've been whinging about your sad love life since I've known you. Find out of it's really you or if somebody hexed you."

That night, Greg went home and started researching. At first it was just doing online searches and reading reviews, but eventually he branched out over the course of a few weeks. He talked to people he knew who covered magical fraud cases. "Who's legit?" Greg asked. "I need to find somebody who knows what they're doing, that won't just be stealing my paycheck."

"I could give you a list," Bradstreet said, "but a lot of them only have middling amounts of success. Magic's an art, not a science, so most don't have a success rate above maybe eighty percent. You want the best, though, you go to this guy. Costs a fortune, but everyone swears he's a miracle worker." Bradstreet rummaged in his desk drawer and pulled out a business card, offering it to Greg. "Name's Holmes."

Greg took the card. It was a heavy, fancy, off-white stock, with an elegant, no-nonsense font. 'M Holmes', it said, 'Magician to Her Majesty'. There was a phone number, and a street address in Kensington. 

"He probably costs a year's wages just to get in the door," Greg said with a sigh.

Bradstreet shrugged. "Yeah, most likely. But if you've got a problem you need solved, he's the one can do it for you."

"Can I keep this?" Greg asked.

"Yeah," Bradstreet said. "I have a couple more."

Greg looked up this 'M Holmes, Magician to Her Majesty' when he got back to his desk. There wasn't a lot about him. The man didn't have a website. The few mentions there were of him were uniformly glowing. He apparently really did show up in the presence of the royal family from time to time. Rumor had it that he was cursed, though. Strange. Either he was a legitimate expert, or he'd paid some people really well and had photo doctoring skills like nobody's business. Bradstreet had been pretty convinced of his legitimacy, though, and Bradstreet was no fool.

A couple of days later, Greg stood outside the Kensington shop, looking in the window. There was a man in there, bent over something at a workbench, partially obscured by a heavily laden bookshelf. Greg opened the door and stepped inside.

"You haven't an appointment," the man said, not looking up. "I'm at a critical juncture with this operation. Sit and wait, or leave."

Silent, Greg took a seat in the comfortable leather wingback chair near the window. The man, obviously Holmes, was tall and slender, dressed in what looked from the back like an impeccably tailored suit. His hair was short, dark auburn, and receding. There were tortoiseshell half-moon glasses perched on a long, rather beaky nose. Holmes watched as something chalky and pink in his extremely complicated alchemical glassware heated over a bunsen burner. Greg waited, silent, for about twenty minutes, taking the place in. Just at the point when the chalky pink residue started to glow and turn to ash, Holmes turned off the heat.

He leaned back, sighed, and turned to Greg, taking off his glasses and giving him a very pointed up and down with his sea-grey eyes. He was a good looking man, Greg thought. Beautifully tailored suit, waistcoat, pocketwatch. Too bad Greg's luck was so terrible. He'd never have stood a chance with a man like Holmes, even before his luck went to shit. "How may I help you?"

Greg hesitated for a moment, uncertain how to approach the situation. Finally, resolved, he nodded to himself. Simple was best, sometimes. "My love life is absolute shite," he said.

Holmes frowned. "Really, Inspector? A love potion? You must certainly be aware that such things are entirely illegal."

Greg snorted. "Yeah, no. I've no idea how you know I'm a copper, but I'm not on some kind of a sting operation, and I'm serious here. I have a problem and nothing I've tried for years has done anything about it. At this point I'm convinced there's something wrong with me. I just wanted to know what it might cost me to put it right."

Holmes's eyebrows rose. "Wrong with you?"

"So, how much does walking in the door cost me?"

Holmes leaned back in his chair. "Tell me about your problem and I'll decide whether you'd be better off spending your money elsewhere. To answer your question, my consultation fee is £5,000, should I decide your problem is interesting enough. That, however, is exceedingly unlikely." His nose wrinkled.

With a sigh, Greg rose and shook his head, feeling defeated. "Yeah, thanks. Me having years of crap luck with relationships is obviously not worth your valuable time."

Holmes's eyes narrowed, looking at Greg more closely, and he gestured at the chair. "Sit. Tell me. I'll be the one to decide whether this is a waste of my time or not."

Greg looked at the door and back at Holmes. He dropped into the chair again. "Right. So. I got married about twenty years ago. For five years or so, everything was fine, but then she started seeing people behind my back. She dumped me not long after. Pretty normal story, so far. People get divorced, big deal." Holmes's look got more intense. Greg felt like he was being x-rayed, and it wasn't comfortable.

"Since we split, nobody I've tried to date has been interested in anything more than one shot. Nobody's ever even agreed to a second date. Half the time nobody'll look at me anyway, so even though I can pull from time to time, there's just really nothing there." Greg shrugged. 

"I know I'm not a prize, but I'm not ugly, either. People tell me I'm a decent bloke. The people I've gone home with, they never really have a complaint, but they're never interested in seeing me again. Nobody wants me to stay the night. Not a single one of them has said anything bad, but every bloody time it's just, 'sorry Greg, you're just not what I'm after.' I keep myself as fit as I can. I don't smell funny. I've got decent teeth. I'm not a complete slob. Yeah, I work terrible hours; it's not like murders happen on a schedule. I'm no genius, but I don't think I'm actually stupid. Maybe I'm just... boring. Maybe I'm dead inside after all this time. I don't know what the hell I've done that chases everyone away. At this point, I swear, there's just something wrong with me."

And there it was. Greg's self-confidence had taken a huge hit over the years. He felt like a tragic bastard, doomed to spend the rest of his life alone, and it hurt. It hurt like hell. Sometimes he thought it wasn't worth going on. Greg hung his head and rested it in his hands, his elbows on his knees.

"So there it is. My boring, not worth a second glance to you problem. I'll just be on my way now, unless you've got somebody you can refer me to who's better suited to my bloody midlife crisis." He picked up his head and started to rise.

"One moment," Holmes said. "This is much more interesting than it seems on the surface." He tugged the gold ring from his finger and held it up, peering intently at Greg with one eye through the circle it made. With the other hand, he gestured for Greg to stand, so he did. With the spin of a finger, Holmes had Greg turn in a slow circle so that he could be examined from all sides. 

When he was facing Holmes again, the man stood and got closer, still staring through the gleaming gold ring. At this distance, he could feel the warmth of the man's body and smell his cologne through the slight odor of smoke from the alchemical setup on the workbench. He stomped hard on his reaction, not wanting to even try. If Holmes couldn't help him, Greg was sure he'd spend the rest of his life alone and unloved. Bloody miserable is what it was.

"Yes," Holmes murmured. "Very interesting. Hmmm." He raised his head from the ring. "I need to touch you, if I may." Greg nodded, and Holmes reached out with his long, thin fingers and ran them slowly along Greg's cheekbone. Greg barely managed to suppress a shiver. 

"Sit, please," Holmes said, and they both sat again. "As I suspected. You've been told many times over the years that you were probably cursed, but you've dismissed it out of hand each time."

"Yeah," Greg said, nodding. "Curses are usually--"

"Quite blatant, yes. Easy to spot. Generally relatively easy to remove, if they're not fatal in the very short term."

"Right." 

Holmes's eyes were alert and intense. "This is subtle, extremely skilled work, yet I don't recognize the hand that laid it. This," he said, "is both fascinating and potentially extremely dangerous."

"What?" 'Extremely dangerous' sounded alarming.

"It would have been laid not long before your wife began cheating on you, about fifteen years ago. Something happened. You angered someone, most likely someone involved in a crime you dealt with. I need to know who."

"Fifteen years ago?" Greg groaned. "Fuck my life. That's… that'll take ages to research. I don't even remember most of the cases I was involved with. I was still a constable at the time."

"Knowing who laid the curse is critical when it's this complex."

He scrubbed his face with both palms and ran one hand through his hair. "Right. So you'll help me figure this out, then." He reached for his wallet. "Do you take a credit card, or will I need to save up for a couple of months for your fee?"

"Put that away," Holmes said. "This is possibly the most interesting thing that's come my way in several years. I'm quite looking forward to something that requires actual untangling for a change."

"What, really?"

"Quite." Greg put his wallet away and Holmes held out his hand. "Mycroft Holmes, at your service." Greg shook it. Holmes smiled, which softened the severe expression on his face considerably. The man was actually really handsome when he wasn't glowering.

"Greg," Greg said. "Greg Lestrade. Detective Inspector, Homicide and Serious Crimes."

"A pleasure to meet you."

"It's going to take me ages to go over all the cases from back then."

Holmes - Mycroft nodded. "I think we can safely narrow it down to cases within three months of the date when your ex began cheating on you. I gather you remember when you found out?"

"Yeah." It was branded in Greg's memory because it had been the week of his bloody birthday, of all things. Worst birthday present of his life, coming home to catch her with some bloke he'd never seen before. "Wasn't exactly a secret."

"I'll send you off, then. When you find the identity of the person -- and it will likely be less complicated than you think, for this curse was laid in anger -- bring a photo if you're able, or some other piece of evidence that could give me a connection to them."

"I'll have to get permission to take out any evidence, but I'll do my best."

"I'm sure you'll find a way." Mycroft strode to the door and opened it for Greg. "And now I must get back to the project I abandoned when you entered."

"Right, sorry. I'll let you get back to work."

"I'll see you soon, Greg."

It took Greg three weeks of digging through files in his spare time to find the case he thought might be relevant. He couldn't be positive, of course, so he brought a couple of others from the same time period that seemed like possibilities. Getting the files and bringing a few tagged bags of evidence along had been difficult, but he'd eventually talked the records department into it. 

This time he called Mycroft first, and set up an appointment with him. Greg arrived at the shop at the appointed time on a Friday evening, and Mycroft greeted him with a pot of tea laid out on his spotlessly clean alchemical workbench.

"I wasn't sure which of these it might be," Greg said, "but I'm pretty certain one of them is our case." He lay the files and the evidence bags out for Mycroft to examine as the tea was poured.

"Let us begin with a little relaxation, first. Some of this might be a bit harrowing, if it goes as I suspect. Tea would be just the thing to prepare us properly." He set a cup in front of Greg, with just the amount of milk and sugar he liked. Greg looked up at Mycroft, uncertain how he'd managed that. "Have you attempted seeking a date since our last meeting?" Mycroft asked.

Greg shook his head. "No. Not really worth it, to be honest. If I'm cursed, there's no point. If I'm not cursed and I'm just bloody fucking unlucky, well, there's still really no point, is there?"

"If you'd attempted it, you could have made observations about what appeared to put people off, and if there was a particular point at which things seemed to go wrong." Mycroft sipped at his tea.

"Well, you didn't think to suggest it, and I wasn't really up to being shot down yet again, thanks."

"Understandable." Mycroft took up the first file and looked through it briefly. "No, this isn't it," he muttered. The second one was no better, in his opinion. The third one, though, caught his attention. "Tell me about this case, Greg." Mycroft pulled photos of the perpetrators out of the file and laid them on the workbench.

"Couple of young blokes, brothers," Greg said. "Dave and Bill Twillson. Bill had a girlfriend who decided she wanted to leave him; they had a long history of domestics. He got angry, beat her up. His brother showed up and instead of stepping in to stop the violence, he thought he'd have some fun, too. They killed the poor girl. Tortured her for several hours, from what forensics said. The case was open and shut. Neither of the boys had any magic to them, but they have a big family, and some of them have got some talent, from what we could see."

"Hmm, and why would someone target you, specifically?" Mycroft asked, poring over the file. "It looks like you did quite a number of the interviews."

"Yeah," Greg said. "Made one of the arrests, too. Got into it with one of the brothers, who pulled a knife on me." Greg rolled up his sleeve. "Cut me pretty good, but there's only a little scar left now. I cuffed him and did the honours."

Mycroft set down the photos and took Greg's arm into his hand, running one fingertip over the thin, pale scar. "You bled at the crime scene, left your blood there."

"Well, nobody was going to mop it up right then. It was enough to get a bandage over my arm so I wasn't bleeding on anyone else."

Mycroft regarded him seriously. "Your blood was left at the flat where the arrest was made. In the presence of family members?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah, the mum and dad, at least. Maybe a couple of other siblings. I was never quite sure. I could hear people in other rooms, but it might also have been folks in neighboring flats. The whole mess was pretty noisy."

"So the family had access to a physical link to you. This is definitely enough to be certain it was a curse. Now we need to narrow it down to who in the family might have been capable of something like this."

"None of them seemed too well educated, that I can recall," Greg said. "You said that if it's a curse--"

Mycroft's grey eyes narrowed and his fingers tightened on Greg's arm. "Oh, it's a curse all right. It's a very subtle and insidious curse, in fact. One that not only is not losing power with time, but one which seems to be affecting you more as time goes on. Your continuing questioning as to whether this is, in fact, a curse is evidence of its power."

"Seriously?"

"Very. A high level of education isn't necessary for these things, Greg, one simply needs enough cleverness and creativity. I'd be more likely to expect something like this of someone educated, but it is absolutely not beyond any cunning man with a long family tradition and an imagination. Twillson is a name I've come across in my historical research from time to time over the years."

"You think I'm in some kind of serious trouble, then."

"Yes." He let go of Greg's arm. "I'm quite certain the perpetrator is male. A hedge witch would more likely have gone for something simple and humiliating -- causing you an inability to have an erection, for instance. Direct and to the point. Also easily identifiable as a curse and very easily removed. No, this was not intended to humiliate you in that base and blatant way. It was intended to undermine you, slowly."

"To what end? What would be the point of cursing some barely-responsible constable at a crime scene?"

"Revenge is a simple but powerful motivator. You made one of the arrests, and it was your blood that was left at the scene. Considering that the two young men were eventually convicted of premeditated murder, the consequences for them and, presumably, for the family, were severe."

"So how do we find out who actually did it?" Greg was uncertain now, and more than a little unsettled.

Mycroft scowled, his eyes dark and angry. "Leave that to me."

"What are you going to do?"

"To begin with, a little divination. And then, I have resources at my disposal that are, perhaps, beyond the capacity of the Metropolitan Police."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to know?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No."

"What kind of divination are you going to do?" Greg asked, curious.

Mycroft stood and rummaged in his desk, tucked in the far corner of the room. "The tarot will give me some of the basics." He drew a small silk-wrapped packet from the drawer. Unwrapping the cards as he returned to the worktop, he handed them to Greg. "Shuffle them thoroughly."

Greg did, closing his eyes and letting the cards riffle between his fingers. He kept shuffling until the cards felt right, then set them on the table in front of Mycroft. Mycroft took them and cut them once, then laid several out in a pattern between them. Greg had some idea how the things worked, but had never had any skill with them. He had friends in the Divination division at Scotland Yard, though, so he'd seen the process in action before.

Greg's uneasiness grew as the cards were laid out. Death and The Devil made an appearance, The Moon, and the Three of Swords. There was a court card as well, the King of Swords, crossed by the Hermit. "That… doesn't look good," he said.

Mycroft stared at the cards for a moment, then looked up at Greg. "It isn't. The perpetrator is elderly and solitary." He tapped The Hermit. "The King here is obviously you, an authority figure, powerful in your own right. The curse, however," Mycroft indicated the other cards, "is intended as a slow, twisting death through the destruction of your confidence and your ability to connect with others. It was created to control you subtly, and to encourage you toward an impoverishment of your spirit; loneliness, despair, and eventual suicide."

Greg stared at the cards. Gods, that felt right. He'd been slowly sinking into despair for years, just quietly struggling with it, never saying much beyond complaining about his crap luck. He shook himself and looked back up at Mycroft. "You mean, what, seriously? This curse is an attempted murder?"

Mycroft nodded. "I shall need to look into this quite thoroughly in order to pinpoint the individual who laid the curse. I would not advise approaching them in your official capacity until we are certain what we're dealing with. I suspect a grandfather or an uncle of the young men in question, but I will need to have their name and some physical link in order to properly break the curse, and for you to bring charges against them for magical mayhem. In any case, I would strongly advise you to keep yourself in company as much as you're able. Revealing the curse may have added strength to it, as the moon's strength waxes with its light. You may well find yourself actively struggling with suicidal ideation."

"How long do you figure this is going to take?" Greg asked, worried.

"A day or two," Mycroft said. "I expect I'll have the necessary materials to break the curse by Sunday evening."

Hesitant, Greg said, "Look, as you probably realized, I live alone. If this thing is going to be getting more powerful over the next couple of days and you think I should spend my time with other people, do you… I mean I know it's a terrible imposition, but do you think I might spend some of that time with you? Since you know what's going on and all."

Mycroft looked Greg over thoughtfully, a slight, mysterious smile touching his thin lips. "You've no one else to spend time with."

Greg sighed. "No. Nobody."

Mycroft nodded. "Very well. I have a brief appointment an hour from now, but it shouldn't take more than twenty minutes. Go, get yourself clothing for the weekend, and return after ten o'clock tonight. You should, however, be warned that I will be working on your situation throughout most of the night. Given that you'll be here, I shall require your assistance so that you'll not be unintentionally endangered during the necessary operation at midnight."

Greg gave Mycroft a confused look. "At midnight? What are you doing at midnight?"

"Summoning a daemon," Mycroft said.

Well, there wasn't much to be said about that. Dealing with daemons was tricky at the best of times, but Mycroft seemed so matter-of-fact about it that he no doubt had one on speed dial or something.

"Daemons. Right, then. I'll see you a little after ten."

Greg had a couple of hours, so he went and packed a rucksack with things for the weekend, then went and dropped the two unneeded files and their associated evidence bags back at the Met. He had about enough time after to grab some fish and chips at a pub before he had to be at Mycroft's office, so he'd at least have had something resembling dinner.

He had no idea what had quite possessed him to ask to stay with Mycroft. Mostly, he supposed, just the aching loneliness he felt that had been intensifying lately. It wasn't like he was so badly off; other people lived their lives alone. Other people seemed happy alone, even. Greg couldn't convince himself that he was one of them. He'd come to dread nights with no one in the bed with him, no one in the flat with him. But he'd not been able to even keep a housemate. Nobody.

Mycroft was right. This had been eating at him for a long time, and tonight really did feel worse. Maybe his life really was in danger.

He arrived at Mycroft's shop and knocked on the door. Mycroft let him in. "Please," he said, "come up to the flat. I've a small guest room you can use while you're here." Greg followed him through the door behind the shop and into a narrow hallway. On one side was a stairway going up. The other led to a little door through which Greg could see a modest kitchen. There was a door into the toilet under the stairs.

Mycroft led him up to the floor above the shop. "My workshop is through this door," Mycroft gestured to the right with one hand, "where we'll be performing the operation tonight. The bath's next to it. My room is at the end of the corridor, and your guest room is here on the left."

The workshop was more than large enough for a nine-foot circle and a triangle to contain the summoned daemon. It was furnished with all the tools that Greg knew were necessary for that sort of work. There was a bookshelf, desk, and chair against one wall, and a wardrobe against the other, which no doubt contained incense, robes, magical inks, and that sort of thing. Greg had never been much interested in ceremonial or goetic magic, beyond what he had to know if somebody had got murdered that way. He knew what not to touch, at least. Scotland Yard had experts for that sort of thing.

The little guest room was a bit cramped, but elegantly furnished and very tastefully decorated. "Please," Mycroft said, "do make yourself at home."

Greg set his bag on the single bed and reached out, taking Mycroft's arm. "Thank you," he said. "I know this was an unusual request, and really out of line, but I'm grateful."

Mycroft's face was gentle and calm. "I'm concerned for your safety, Greg. Your request was eminently sensible, and easy enough to grant." The spike of want that went through Greg was enough to crush his spirit. Mycroft was being kind to a client. He could afford to, so why not? "Arrange your things in the dresser to your liking. There are books," he gestured to the little bookshelf next to the bed, "should you want anything to read. Please meet me in the workshop at eleven, as we shall have to prepare for the operation. There are things you'll need to know to remain both useful and safe."

"All right. Thanks again, Mycroft."

Mycroft left and Greg pulled his stuff out of his rucksack. He wasn't going to work over the weekend, so it was just some extra underthings, a pair of jeans, and a couple of shirts, along with his toothbrush and the usual toiletries. He looked over the bookshelf, which was filled with paperback novels of varying genres. It would figure all of Mycroft's magical texts would be downstairs in his shop, in his workshop, or in his bedroom.

Sooner than Greg expected, it was eleven, and Greg met Mycroft in the workshop. Mycroft was dressed in a white robe with an intricately embroidered tabard over it, and a belt around his waist that looked like it was embroidered in gold thread. "Before anything else," Mycroft said, "you'll need to purify yourself. Run a bath quickly, pour the green vial of oil in, and wash yourself. Dry off and put this robe and cord on, but nothing else." He handed Greg a white robe and a red cord for his waist.

"Do I need to knot this thing in any special way?" he asked. Some of this stuff could be ridiculously fiddly, he knew.

Mycroft shook his head. "No, I'm the only one who needs to be concerned with that sort of thing. Quickly now, there's no time to waste."

He sent Greg off, and Greg did as he was told. The green vial of oil smelled strongly of frankincense. He dressed and returned to the workshop, where Mycroft had already laid out a ridiculous number of fiddly things, including a sword.

"So, what do I need to do?" Greg asked.

Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder. "Your primary task is to remain within the circle with me, where you'll be safe. You will, essentially, be my bookstand."

"Your bookstand."

"Yes, I know. It's beneath your dignity. So's being rent asunder by a disgruntled daemon. You shall hold my book for me, and say absolutely nothing, no matter how tempted you are to do so. Your silence will protect you. Believe me, the daemon in question will attempt to get you to speak. Nothing whatsoever that you say will be of any assistance to either of us; it may actively endanger both of us. You must give no information to the daemon. You must not respond to anything it says to you. You must say _nothing whatsoever_. Once the operation is over, you must say nothing at all about the operation until I tell you that you may. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," Greg said, a little shaken by the whole idea.

"Once we are within the circle and the rite is begun, you must remain within the circle, so stand where I put you and do not move. If you break the circle, again, you endanger both of us."

"Got it. Play waxworks statue."

"Just so." Mycroft squeezed Greg's shoulder and let go.

"What's going to happen here? I've never been at a conjuration before."

Mycroft handed Greg a large, hand written book and opened it to a marked page. "I shall need to light incense, draw the sigils of the daemon, and utter the conjurations several times. Offerings will be required, which will be poured into the vessel you see in the circle before us."

There was a little table inside the circle, and what looked like a large, silver bowl on the floor beside it. The table had fruits, meat, a few coins, and a bottle of wine on it. "Offerings. Got it."

"The conjuration itself should take approximately twenty minutes. The negotiation with the daemon will take however long it takes. It will then be dismissed and allowed to go and do my bidding. We will repeat the process tomorrow night at midnight and gain our results."

"And what results are those?" Greg asked.

"I'm sending the daemon for the name of the person who cursed you, for evidence of the curse that we can use against them, and a link to the person who laid it that will allow me to break it before it kills you." Greg suppressed a shiver. "It's all right, Greg," Mycroft reassured him. "I do this kind of work frequently. If you were not here, it would be a routine operation for me. Your presence complicates it slightly because you need to be here in the circle with me in order to be safe. As long as you are in the circle with me, you will be in no danger whatsoever. I'm extremely familiar with this daemon. It will be summoned into the triangle, isolated from us. Your silence is to prevent giving the daemon anything at all with which to harm you."

"Okay," Greg said, uneasy. His heart was rattling in his chest now.

Mycroft looked at the clock on the wall. "It's time to begin. Into the circle. Stand on the small green mark next to the table and don't move. Say nothing."

"Right," Greg muttered, then closed his mouth and stepped into the circle, standing on the green X that Mycroft had indicated. He held the book up, open as it had been handed to him. Before he entered the circle, Mycroft traced glowing designs around the outside of the triangle, chanting things in a language Greg didn't understand, then lit three candles at each of the points.

When Mycroft stepped into the circle, Greg could feel the power radiating off him. Mycroft traced a design on the page of the book Greg held with one finger, then started drawing shimmering symbols around the circle with his sword. He chanted words Greg didn't understand, repeating some things several times. Greg recognized some of the words as names, but nothing he was familiar with. Eventually, Mycroft laid his sword on the table and picked up the fruit, crushed it in one hand, and dropped it into the silver bowl. He took the meat next, droning vowel sounds, and added that to the bowl as well. 

Mycroft cleaned his hands and dried them, then poured the entire bottle of wine into the bowl. More incense was added to the censer, clouding the room with the bitter smoke of dragon's blood and storax, and Mycroft's words never ceased. Last, Mycroft took up his sword again. He picked up the silver coins and held them over his head in one hand. "I offer you payment in silver coin!" Mycroft shouted, and he cast the coins into the bowl. The entire contents began to smoke, and Greg shuddered. He could feel it, whatever it was, in the room with them.

"Come, I command you!" Mycroft pointed the sword at the triangle a few feet away, outside the circle. "Manifest as I demand, and do my bidding!"

Inside the triangle, there was a swirl of smoke. Over the course of about a minute, it thickened, darkened, and began to solidify into a shape. Mycroft held the sword with its point toward the triangle, obviously deeply focused on the thing manifesting before them. The shape slowly defined itself, resolving into a three-headed jaguar with golden eyes. Once it was solid, it blinked at them, then rose, shifting and changing form until it had become a tall, slender man with pale skin, blue eyes, and curly black hair. He was naked as the night sky.

"Hello, Mycroft," the daemon sneered, its voice a low rumble.

"Sherlock. I've a task for you."

Sherlock's eyes raked over both of them, and Greg was terrified. "Oh, Mycroft. You've acquired a pet. How quaint."

Mycroft raised the sword. "I require that you discover and acquire for me."

Sherlock sighed. "Boring. I'm much more interested in the cursed thing beside you in the circle." 

"Be silent!" Mycroft commanded. The daemon glared at him but said nothing. "I require that you discover for me the true and entire name of the individual who has laid this curse upon this man. I require that you acquire for me the means to break this curse, and evidence that may be used in this time and place to convict said individual of the crime of laying the curse. I require that you bring these things to me when I summon you again tomorrow at this hour, and that you trouble not the inhabitants of this house under any circumstances."

"I have a price," Sherlock snarled, eyes narrowed. Greg shivered at the venom in the words.

"Name the price to be paid once the curse is lifted, and I shall consider it." Mycroft's voice was low and threatening. His body was tense, and Greg could feel the energy washing over him as he kept tight control over the situation and the daemon. 

"In return for the service you require, I demand to see you hand your new pet your still-beating heart."

Greg, shocked, opened his mouth to object, but Mycroft covered it with his empty hand and glared at him. 

"I agree to your price," Mycroft said, without hesitation. "When the curse is lifted you shall see me hand my still-beating heart to this man."

Greg wanted to scream his refusal, wanted to shake sense into the man, but his hands held the book, and Mycroft's palm remained over his mouth, pressed to his lips. Removing his curse -- his _life_ wasn't worth Mycroft's. Sherlock laughed, his teeth not human but razor-sharp daggers of white bone. "Oh, I am so looking forward to being rid of you and your constant demands. You have been a pestilence, mage. Seeing your blood all over the circle as you gasp out your last breaths, and then I'll watch your pet die by his own hand out of guilt! What a delight!"

"Begone, now, Sherlock, and fulfil my requirements. I have agreed to your price. I charge you to do all I have asked, without fail, and within the time I have assigned. I charge you to return again when summoned, and bring me each of these items as I have commanded." The sword in Mycroft's hand was steady, and he gestured with it, banishing the daemon, who curled back into the shape of a snarling, three-headed jaguar before vanishing into smoke.

Mycroft turned to Greg. "You must say _nothing_ of the operation. I know you object to my having accepted the daemon's terms, but _you must trust me_. I know precisely what I am doing. I have dealt with this daemon many times before. Do you agree to remain silent, as I told you before this began?"

Greg, still shocked, hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Mycroft relaxed slightly and withdrew his hand from Greg's mouth. He turned his attention to the formal banishments and to opening the triangle and circle before he took the book from Greg's hands.

"If you would please assist me in cleaning the workshop. We'll need to dispose of the remains of the offerings, and to purify and re-set the room so that we may repeat the process tomorrow night at midnight." Mycroft seemed far too calm for a man who'd just offered to rip his own heart out.

"Right," Greg whispered, shaken to his core. Unable to process what had just happened, he did as Mycroft told him, carrying things, washing things with particular substances, repeating phrases that Mycroft taught him. They changed out of ritual robes into their clothes.

Finally, when they finished, Mycroft took him by the elbow. "Come downstairs to the kitchen with me. I think some tea would do you good."

Quiet, Greg nodded and followed the man down the narrow stairs and into the kitchen. It was slightly larger than it looked from the hallway, with enough counter space to be useful and a small dining table with four chairs around it. Shaking, he let Mycroft ease him into one of the chairs. Mycroft started the kettle and got out his tea things. When the water boiled, he poured it into the teapot. He crouched next to Greg's chair and laid a hand on one arm. "Trust me," he whispered, his voice gentle. "Don't despair. I won't let any harm come to you."

"I-it's not me I'm worried for." Greg couldn't help how his voice shook.

Mycroft put his arms around Greg and held him as the tea steeped. "You need to have some tea and a little something to eat. It'll stabilize you a bit. And then you should get some sleep."

"I don't think I can." Greg didn't let go, clinging to Mycroft.

"If you wish, I can give you a philtre that will allow you a restful, dreamless sleep. I would advise it. When we remove the curse tomorrow, it may be quite hard on you energetically. The more rested you are, the better you'll come out of it."

"But--" 

Mycroft put his hand over Greg's mouth again. "Do not speak of the operation. To speak of it will endanger it. I've said all I can, and you must trust me."

"I'll do my best." It was hard, and Greg couldn't help dwelling on the horror he knew he would witness the next night. After they finished their tea and biscuits, Greg found himself just hopelessly following Mycroft about the flat, unable to be too far from him, unwilling to sleep and lose a few precious hours with the man who'd offered everything to break the stupid, miserable curse that had been laid upon him.

Finally, taking pity on him, Mycroft took his hand and led Greg into his own bedroom, a little larger than the guest room and even more elegantly appointed. "At least sit here with me and rest, Greg," he said, leaning back against his pillows and letting Greg lie in his arms. There was nothing at all Greg could say that would be adequate, and he let silent tears fall as he held Mycroft's arms to his body.

He must have slept for at least a couple of hours, as he woke with Mycroft's arms still around him, both of them still dressed. He didn't want to move. It was the first time he'd woken next to someone since his wife left him. He felt more cursed in this moment than he had in the entire last fifteen years of his life.

Mycroft shifted behind him, making small noises as he woke.

"Let me make some breakfast," Greg murmured. It was the least he could do for a condemned man.

Mycroft's arms opened and he said, "Thank you."

Greg got up and forced himself to part with Mycroft then relieved himself and went to the kitchen. Barely thinking, he relied on some kind of autopilot as he fried up eggs and sausages and beans. He wasn't sure he'd be able to choke down the meal, but maybe Mycroft would be able to eat.

The day was a blur of misery and Mycroft's quiet preparations for the ritual that was to come. He added several items to the circle in the workshop, presumably for the breaking of the curse. Greg couldn't think about the rest of it. 

At one point, Greg grabbed Mycroft by the shoulder in the doorway of the workshop. "Don't do this. Please," he begged.

Mycroft rested his fingertips on Greg's lips. "Hush. Trust me. Say nothing." His grey eyes were soft and kind and Greg hid himself in the guest room and wept, torn between staying close to Mycroft and hiding himself to spare Mycroft his despair.

Maybe it would be better to just end it. Just kill himself. Do what the curse demanded. It would spare Mycroft's life, after all, and he was doomed anyway. He couldn't live with the thought of someone dying to save him from this. Mycroft came into his room as he stewed in his self-destructive indecision. "You are not to harm yourself," he said. "I shall not accept it. Not at all. That is _not_ how this is meant to go. _Trust me_." Mycroft took his hand then and didn't let Greg leave his side for the rest of the day.

Slowly, inexorably, the hour was upon them. Mycroft seemed completely unperturbed despite Greg's frantic, growing anguish. "We shall now do as we did last night and summon the daemon. He will have the name, and the items we need."

Finally, standing in the circle before Mycroft began the ritual, Greg begged him. "Please don't do this," he whispered. "Please."

"Trust me," Mycroft murmured, "and say nothing until I ask you." He gave Greg's elbow one last, reassuring squeeze, and began the operation.

Greg stood there, holding the book, through the whole rite. The conjuration was exactly the same as the night before, and the daemon swirled into existence within the triangle, smirking as the daemonic form shifted into his human shape.

"I see he's not talked you out of it," Sherlock drawled. "Pity."

"I charge you to reveal to me the true and entire name of the individual who laid this curse upon this man, as we agreed," Mycroft said.

The daemon snorted. "Matthew Twillson," he replied.

Mycroft nodded. "That task is done. I charge you now to give to me the evidence I require and the means to break this curse."

Sherlock grinned a razor-toothed grin and gestured, a bottle floating in the air between his hands. Something writhed within it. "I've both objects in one," he said. "Less work for the same _delicious_ reward."

"A witch bottle," Mycroft said. "And it appears to contain some sort of homunculus."

"Mmm," Sherlock said with a nod.

"Most unusual." Mycroft removed the plate that had held the offerings of fruit and meat on the table, and set that and the empty wine bottle on the floor. He drew a quick design on the table in some sort of sparkling ash, and the bottle vanished from the space between Sherlock's hands and appeared within the design.

This close, Greg could see that his name was written in what looked like dried blood on a label adorning the outside of the bottle. His own, most likely. The bottle was bound in tangles of intricately knotted cord. Inside was a pulsing, writhing creature of slime and smoke, whose skin looked cracked and ready to burst.

"This will take some time to dispel," Mycroft said. "The knots cannot be cut, they must be untied." He looked up at Sherlock. "I'm afraid you'll just have to wait patiently for your reward."

The daemon laughed. "It would be just as amusing, I think, to see the whole thing blow up in your face. I could watch you both die."

Mycroft gestured with his sword. "SIlence!" he commanded. "I'll not be disturbed while I work on this task." Sherlock growled, but said nothing.

Mycroft set down his sword and took up the bottle, turning it carefully this way and that between his long, slender fingers. He examined it through the circle of his gold ring for several minutes, as Greg grew silently more distressed. Finally, satisfied, Mycroft took up one end of the cord around the bottle and began chanting under his breath.

The end of the cord glowed gently, showing Mycroft where and how to ease and open the knots. It took nearly an hour to undo everything, the horrifying creature within the bottle pulsing and writhing more and more energetically as he worked. Greg could feel the whole process in his body, energy pulsing at his skin, trying to get out. As the last knot came undone, Mycroft lay the cord on the table within the design. Carefully, he set the bottle down as well and took up a dagger. With the tip of the dagger, he broke the wax seal that held the lid on. Greg could smell something unimaginably fowl from inside and nearly retched.

Holding his breath, Mycroft pried the lid off entirely. With a swift gesture and a shouted word of power, he stabbed the dagger down into the writhing abomination and Greg felt the curse snap. His knees wobbled and he nearly fell. "It is done!" Mycroft cried, triumphant.

Sherlock laughed. Mycroft turned to him. "You have done as you were bidden. I shall now pay the price as agreed."

He set the dagger on the table, much to Greg's shock. Mycroft took the book from Greg's hands and lay it on the table as well. He stepped close and took Greg's hand, resting Greg's palm over his heart. Nearly nose to nose, he held Greg's face between both of his own hands. Mycroft's eyes cried out for Greg to trust him and Greg, in near panic, stayed as still as he could through his trembling. He could feel the frantic thumping of Mycroft's heart beneath his palm.

"Gregory Lestrade," Mycroft said, "I hand to you my still beating heart. Do you accept this gift?"

Stunned, Greg nodded. "Yes," he choked, his voice rough and shattered. "Yes, I accept the gift."

Mycroft pressed his mouth to Greg's, kissing him fiercely, and Greg's fingers knotted in the richly embroidered tabard over Mycroft's white ritual robe. Greg's vision went dark as Mycroft kissed him; he could feel something within them intertwining, binding them together, inseparable.

Sherlock screamed. "That is _not_ the price I asked! I've been cheated!"

Breathless, Mycroft lifted his mouth from Greg's and looked over at the shrieking daemon. "But it is," he said. "You asked that I hand him my still beating heart; I have done so. You at no point specified that I must sever it, bleeding, from my chest."

"I demand justice for this breach of contract!"

Mycroft smiled a tight, vicious smile. "Never forget, Sherlock -- I'm the smart one. You'll get no satisfaction from any aetherial court, for you'd have twisted another's words in just such a way yourself."

"I shall see you in Tartarus," Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft's head tilted. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Regardless, that will not be for a very long time."

Sherlock wailed and argued as Mycroft put the lid back over the putrid remains of the creature, then performed the banishment. He took extra precautions and added further protections for himself and Greg, who stood next to him, book in hand, trembling violently. 

When the operation was complete, Greg sank down into the little desk chair in the room, his head spinning in his shock. He looked up at Mycroft. "Why?" he asked. "Why would you do this for me? Why would you bind us together like that?"

Mycroft came to him and brought him to his feet, taking Greg in his arms. "When I heard your tale and I saw your true nature through the circle of the ring, I knew that you were the one I'd been waiting for, all my life. As a child, I'd been marked by a curse of my own, and you -- you were the key to its breaking. I would have explained if I could, but it is the nature of some curses that they cannot be described. Mine was one."

"That's… that's why you wouldn't take your fee."

Mycroft nodded. "There was an element of fate in this, Greg. To break my own curse, I had to break yours, and our lives would be twined together from that moment forward."

"So when I asked to stay…"

"I already knew that you would." He kissed Greg again, gently this time, then turned to the table and picked up the bottle. 

"This, with the name that Sherlock gave us, will be ample evidence of the identity of the man who cursed you, and of the deadly nature of the curse itself. You'll be able to bring attempted murder charges against him. This was a very clever, twisted use of a witch bottle. I daresay by putting this man in prison, a grave danger will have been lifted from our city."

Still a bit numb from the whole thing, Greg took the bottle from him and set it on Mycroft's desk. "Look, I don't know about you, but I'm shattered. I barely slept last night. When we've cleaned up here, could we…"

"Yes," Mycroft said, smiling. "Of course we can. We both require rest, and tomorrow is a new day."

Finally, Greg thought, his luck had changed. He looked forward to what tomorrow might bring.


End file.
